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Meet Alabaster
I'm so glad you're here to listen to me. You whine sometimes, but you're much quieter than the others who were here before. They caused such a row in my house that I had to pack dirt into their windpipes and throw them out into the back. Even then, they wouldn't stop their gasping and bloody sobbing! The way you stare at me is a bit unsettling, though. Your eyes are red and they must be burning from keeping them open for so long. You look angry... Could you just close your eyes for a second? ...Come on, please? You could go blind. I want you to take care of those eyes. They're all kinds of blues and greens and they're beautiful. Fine, then! Ruin your eyes! I don't give a shit! Just... Ugh. If you start crying because your eyes hurt while I'm speaking, I swear I'll shove that gag down your throat. Ah, anyway, I can't tell you my name because, well, that would ruin the whole point! But you can call me 'Alabaster.' Cool, huh? I made up that name while I was in Germany. Believe it or not, I was a teenager once, just like you. In those days, I lived with Mommy in Paris. The city was bloated with a subtle grandeur that rested in the day time and danced at night under the deep violet skies. Each night, the buildings street lamps lit up and formed rows of stars at every block and corner. Many places were injected with the confident bustle typical of cities. Other places, however, held an irresistible peace about them. I learned all about the city in the picture books Mum bought for me. She never let me outside. I hated my mother with an extraordinary passion. Still, I can't say I've ever met a woman who tasted sweeter. She always told me that she had the best intentions for me. Her smiles, her cracked painted lips stretched taut across her face, made it more obvious that she was a broken little lass. Everything about her was the color of smoke except for her scarlet red lips. One day I asked her where Daddy had been. She looked at me hard in the face, grabbed me by the shirt collar, and threw me at the marble mantelpiece in our sitting room. I couldn't count the eternity of kicks and curses I received from her in those few minutes. Her face was distorted; her jagged white teeth were digging into her lips and the angles cut into her old face deepened. Blood and lipstick browned her front teeth and slugged down to her chin. She looked so happy, so disappointed... So professional. Being—FEELING weak is a terrible, terrible thing. Lying in my bed staring into the darkness of my room wouldn't stop the wrenching of my heavy heart. A strange ache infested my eyes and a warm, moist, stinging sensation blurred them. I took a sample of the streaming liquid with my fingertips and tasted it. It tasted like salt. My eyes clouded even more and my stomach turned over at the taste. It was all of the humiliation of this suffocated world cramped into a clear one millimeter jar known as a 'tear.' It made me absolutely sick. I held in my screams and ran as quickly as I could into the kitchen. I had to see more of the dark stuff that came out of Mom's lips. It made her look stronger and marked me to let her know that she had dominated my entire being. I took a knife from a drawer and tiptoed to her bedroom. Empty brown bottles were scattered about the floor and the table by her bed. Half of her body was on the bed while the other half drooped on the side. Her eyes drifted as her head reeled back and forth between dreamy waves and the yellowed ceiling. I approached the limp body and raised the knife. "Whaddaya waant.. kid..?" she spat out. I started where she had kicked me. The knife came down her left side and ripped through her flesh past the rib cage. Her eyes widened ever so slightly and a gasp escaped her red lips. It sustained itself for a bit until she finally settled back into her drunken, never-ending dreams. I holed her chest, waiting for some of that beautiful red to splash right against my face. Nothing. Either the alcohol slowed her blood down or the wench was already withering away. When I stabbed her neck, a nice river of it bloomed all over her bed sheets. I leaned into her neck and took a modest lick. The scent of hers pervaded my entire mouth and filled it with a pleasant, bitter taste. I soon learned that it was called 'blood.' Blood is my reason and guardian from vile, salty tears. It's why you're here with me today, mein freund. I've never taken blood from someone with such pretty eyes, and—What... What's that coming from your eyes? Category:Mental Illness